In the mists of one morning a cry came from Tom Horn; and Corkery, whose watch on deck it was, advanced toward him. The clerk, trembling and clinging to the forward rail with one hand, was pointing away to the south with the other. Corkery followed the direction indicated; through the piling formations of mist he saw a vast huddle; it loomed up out of the sea, hung with flying tendrils of fog; a dim light set through its spaces, pale, phosphorescent, unreal. "Land!" said Corkery. "Land, by God!" "No," said Tom Horn. "It is the place of my captivity! It is the city of dead ships!" XLI The mate had Anthony on deck directly, and the young man eagerly searched the mists to make out what manner of a place it was that bulked up so out of the sea. In a few moments mademoiselle also appeared; and as she stood with them in the schooner's bow her face was white, but she said nothing. The sails were motionless; the rotting sea piled against their prow; the air was hot and dull; the mist, veiling the whole region, was like steam. "The pull of this current promises a deal of discomfort to us if we can't make way against it," said Anthony to the mate. "I could wish we were well quit of it," said Corkery. "A little farther into the midst of this sea, and it might take more than a wind to help us away again." "What depth of water does your chart give?" said Anthony, to Tom Horn. The clerk turned his head but still kept his tight clutch on the rail. "I so feared what was beneath these waters," he said, "that I never sounded them. But there is a great depth; there must be, because of the dreadful life that swarms there." "Too much water for an anchor," said the mate. But he called for the lead, nevertheless, and watched fathom after fathom of line run over the side. "As deep a hole as there is in all the sea," he grumbled. "If every cable in the ship were fastened end to end," said Tom Horn, "they'd do no good. There would be nothing for your anchor to grapple with. It would be like hanging over the rim of the moon, fishing for the world." Slowly the sun seeped through the mist; then it rent holes in it; the vapor curled forlornly before the light, and lifted away from the surface of the sea. The vague loom ahead now became solid; it took both body and color; it was a huddle of broken ships, crowding together like cattle in a green field. The rotting sea held them; their planks were warped; their seams gaped thirstily. And, as the schooner's company watched, the drift rode the _Roebuck_ on; the mass of weed and sea-rubbish turned, and shifted drearily, and seemed to deepen.